


Daydream Believer

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Can I Say Crack One More Time?, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Prophetic Dreams, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: She's used to dreams. She's lived quite a life, after all. But not like this.
Relationships: None
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Daydream Believer

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I got from a fandom group I belong to. At the end of BTVS, there was a spell cast to activate all of the Slayers all over the world. What if there was no cut-off point as to age? Because, really, who'd have been a better Slayer?

The dream was what woke her up. 

She has dreams all the time now. Vivid ones, almost like reliving those events instead of just seeing them in her mind. Wars, the passing of years as she worked to build something, a lasting legacy to pass on to younger generations. Dreams of what was, of what might have been.

But not like that. 

She sits up in bed, reaches for her robe, which is draped over the back of a nearby bed. It's past midnight, so there's no one in the halls beyond her closed door. She has a private room, afforded to her both because she can afford it and because of her status as a retired founder of SHIELD. The staff are respectful, even deferential. She shrugs the robe on, lightweight material rustling as she ties the sash. 

She feels...she feels strange, and the dream is still with her. Fire and fangs and a black tornado that swept across a desert in the middle of the day. The room seems a little smaller, a little brighter, as if her eyes have adjusted so well to the darkness that she doesn't need to turn on a lamp. Her bare feet make noise on the carpet as she pads into the bathroom, the dim illumination of the nightlight she keeps turned on offering her a reflection of her face in the mirror above the sink.

She's old, and she's been old for some time now. Or if not old, 'elderly', which is the word the more diplomatic among the staff use. Gray hair and wrinkles, laugh lines that deepened over time. The wisdom of the years residing in deep-set brown eyes. The floor is cold beneath her feet, and she feels so _strange_.

She turns the other light on, and it's the same face she's seen every day of her life, if a little worse for wear. But her eyes are brighter, and she can almost feel the blood in her veins, pumping from her heart and through her arteries. There's new strength in old limbs, as though the vitamin supplements they give her here are actually doing some good. She takes a half-step back from the sink, the Formica counter. Sees the dream images again, has no reference for any of them. Not hypnosis, and she hasn't been drugged, Even now, she keeps a close eye on those around her. Too much experience with spies and those who did harm in the dark. Poor dear Howard and his wife.

She takes a very deep breath, her lungs filling with oxygen, and it's effortless. She is old, but she's never been frail, and this strangeness she feels almost...almost feels normal. As though it lurked beneath the surface for years, only just now deciding to announce itself. Something must have happened to trigger it, though she doesn't know what. Her arms feel strong, her legs ready to run, as though she could see in pitch blackness and not worry about falling. If not young, then vital. With the wisdom her years accords her, but with the strength and tenacity of someone far her junior in years.

"Extraordinary."


End file.
